Opera Ghost
by Mertiya
Summary: When high school senior Christine finds herself in the real version of her favorite musical, she's confused. But as her memories of her real life wane, she finds herself in a web of intrigue between a mysterious masked figure and a charming viscount.


**Author's Note and Disclaimer: **I don't own _Phantom_, though I think it isn't under copyright any longer, so I'm not sure if a disclaimer is necessary. Anyways, here goes. Enjoy! R&R if you like, or if you want to constructively criticize. Please no flames :(. Flames make Alenida sad. Readers make Alenida happy. Also, I have this entire darn thing finished, so no worries about me stopping in the middle of upload with writer's block. Yay! :)

_he watches_

_Silent_

_Frowning_

_on occasion, he smiles_

_ that's pretty rare_

_there was a Time_

_--noteworthy--_

_ when he smiled and frowned too_

_at the same time--_

**Prelude**

_The Royal Palace, Persia, the second half of the nineteenth century_

The prison cell was dark and dank. There was no window to allow light or air to enter. A young man sat cross-legged against the wall, humming a tune to himself in a forlorn voice. He was tall and thin; his wrists were chafed and raw, as if they had been bound for a long time. Over his face, he wore a black mask made out of rough cloth. There were slits cut in it for eyeholes. Though most of his face was hidden, his mouth drooped despondently, and he slumped in apparent misery.

After a few moments, the door swung open to admit a middle-aged woman flanked by guards. She had a slim, pointed face, a beaked nose, black hair, and elegant, mobile black brows. She would have been handsome if there had not been an undeniable air of cruelty hovering about her thin lips and sparkling black eyes. "Good evening, Erik," she said, speaking in _Farsi._

The man in the cell raised his head but did not respond.

"Come, Erik, I have taught you better manners than that, I hope," she chided, a hint of anger entering her well-modulated voice.

"Good evening, Sultana," responded the man, after a pause. The voice did not come from his still form, but from somewhere in the air beside the Sultana's ear. She jumped, but did not seem displeased.

"I was hoping you would honor us with a performance tonight," she said.

"As my ladyship commands." The voice was surprisingly deep and rich, with an intangibly fluid quality to it. This time it appeared to come from one of the guards next to the Sultana. The man started back with wide eyes. The Sultana laughed and clapped her hands. "Excellent, Erik! You are in fine form today!"

The masked face bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment, but there was a wariness in the set of the shoulders that jarred with the politeness of the gesture. The Sultana made a gesture and two of the guards entered the cell and dragged Erik to his feet. They kept their hands on his arms as they frog-marched him out of the room.

The Sultana led the way into a little room which was comfortably furnished with cushions from wall to wall. Each wall was covered in mirrors, giving the illusion of space and grandeur. A small group of wealthy-looking men and women were sprawled languidly in various positions on the cushions. The Sultana looked around at them all.

"Good evening, my friends!" she exclaimed.

A chorus of "good evenings" reverberated throughout the room. One man, more sleepy or perhaps more intoxicated than the others, said nothing. The Sultana shot him a venomous look and made a small motion. Two of her guards broke formation and dragged him out of the room. The door shut, and there came several hideous screams from the hallway. The Sultana smirked, most of the crowd went pale, and the lips of the man in the mask twisted in a peculiar expression.

"Tonight, my friends, I have a special treat for you!" announced the Sultana. The crowd applauded appreciatively.

She gestured toward Erik. "This is Erik, my little songbird, who, consequentially, also designed and built the room in which you are now sitting."

Again, appreciative applause.

"Sing, Erik," the Sultana commanded.

The resultant concert was extraordinary. Not only because of the power and beauty of the singer's voice, which were astonishing, but because the voice seemed to come from every corner of the chamber at one time or another; at one point, it even appeared to be emanating from the mouth of the Sultana. She frowned at the singer, and the voice veered away hastily.

At the end, the applause was loudly enthusiastic rather than merely appreciative. The Sultana did not look entirely pleased. Sensing danger, Erik turned and bowed to her. "Of course my performance would have been impossible without the graciousness of her highness the Sultana."

She looked partially placated, but a wicked sparkle came into the depths of her eyes. "There is one other thing about my songbird that you should know," she said brightly. "His face is not so handsome as his voice. Erik, remove your mask."

Erik stood as if carved in stone, making no move. "I said remove your mask!" The voice was sharp and harsh, no longer in the least bright. Slowly, Erik put his hands up to the mask and removed it. There was a collective gasp from the crowd. Several of the women fainted.

"Monster!" exclaimed a man's voice. The cry was taken up by many and soon the room was full of jeering and yells of "Monster!" "Demon!" "Devil!"

One of the audience spat at Erik, and fairly soon human expectorations were flying through the air like raindrops toward him. He stood still with his eyes fixed upon the ground, unmoving.

"Take him back to his cell," the Sultana instructed the guards after a few more moments. "And beat him."

The two guards who by chance were nearest Erik also happened to have been recently engaged, and they misinterpreted the Sultana's words. She had meant them to beat her 'songbird' once they had him safely ensconced in his cell, but instead, they began to beat him in the corridor outside.

"Stop!"

It was the Sultana's voice, and it came from behind them. Had either of them had any experience with the prisoner, they would have known that he was not only an accomplished ventriloquist but also an exceptional mimic, but they did not know, and both instinctively glanced to the place from which the voice appeared to be coming. Suddenly, they were both flying through the air. A moment later, they were bound with their own belts and their own cloaks had been stuffed into their mouths.

"I would kill you now, if I did not think the Sultana will be far more--_adept_--at causing you pain than I," hissed the voice of the man they had beaten, as they had thought, almost senseless. He turned on his heel and strode out of the Sultana's dungeon.

Months later, a hooded figure tramped up the road to Paris. In one hand, he carried a sack of food, in the other was a bundle of thick paper. He walked slowly and wearily, but deliberately. His hood was pulled so low that the shadow of it completely hid his face, and it seemed surprising that he could see where he was going.

He was given little or no attention by the inhabitants of the outskirts of the City of Light. Weary travelers were a common sight, and for that reason he was able to make his way into the city without having to converse with another soul. He wandered aimlessly about the busy streets, almost like a sleepwalker. Early in the afternoon, quite by chance, he came across a half-constructed building which rang with shouts and the sounds of hammers and saws. Perhaps it was a sense of curiosity that drove him forward, or perhaps it was something else altogether, but at any rate, he approached the structure.

"May I help?" he asked politely of a red-faced workman who was attempting to set a piece of timber into place.

"_S'il vous plait_."

It was the work of a moment for the hooded man, with a twist and a grunt, to set it into place.

"_Merci beaucoup_," said the workman. "What's your name?"

"I am--" a slight hesitation, "That is, I would prefer to be called Monsieur Noir."

"Very well, Monsieur Noir, are you looking for work?"

Again a slight hesitation, then the hooded head nodded.

"Ah! _Bon_! I'm sure Monsieur Garnier could use another worker, especially one as strong as you, Monsieur."

"_Merci_," murmured the newly-christened Monsieur Noir.

In the months that followed, the construction of Garnier's Opera House went with astonishing swiftness. Rumors circulated about the mysterious M. Noir who had begun as a simple workman but was now aiding M. Garnier with the design of the building, a man who was reclusive and never seen without his face hidden, a man who was often to be seen, when not in conference with M. Garnier, sitting in a secluded corner of the half-completed Opera House with a bundle of paper on his lap and a quill pen in his hand.

This state of affairs continued until the Opera House was essentially completed. It was only a the morning before its long-delayed gala opening with a performance of _La Juive_ that misfortune overtook the man now called Monsieur Noir and formerly known as Erik, the songbird of the Sultana of Persia.

He was sitting, writing, as usual, when a stray gust of wind caught the top sheet of paper and whirled it away over the steps of the Palais Garnier. Monsieur Noir leapt to his feet and ran in pursuit. He finally caught up with it just in front of a group of curious Parisians who had come to gawk at the famous new edifice. One of them greeted him with a perfunctory nod, and he was nodding back silently, when the same malicious gust of wind crept up behind him and gave a sudden, sharp tug, enough to jerk back the hood of his cloak, revealing a face half-covered by a white mask.

The crowd stared, and M. Noir hastily tugged the hood up again. But the men and women surrounding him were curious and approached him quickly. He turned to leave, only to find more people pressing in on him from behind. "Excuse me, I must go," he said. But a curious little girl, sitting on her father's shoulders, stretched out her hands and in two swift motions, tugged first the hood and then the mask from his mysterious face.

M. Noir's hands shot to his face, but too late. There was an instant outcry. The crowd closed in. The bundle of paper was torn from M. Noir's hands, and those nearby swore he gave a cry of actual pain as it left his hands. It was passed through many hands, maimed, ripped, torn, and then flung upon the ground where the wind caught it and with gleeful gusts blew it away in all directions. It was easily recognizable now as a musical score, covered with messily scribbled black notes and a few words.

The crowd screamed "Satan!" at M. Noir and began to beat him, even as he shrieked curses and pleas in three languages at once. It was half an hour before the mob, more animals than men by that time, tossed the still body of their victim into a nearby river and returned to their homes and families, all telling the tale of how they had slain the devil at the Palais Garnier that day.

Hours later, after dark, a bedraggled, badly injured, and bone-weary Erik crawled up a sandy bank where the river had taken him. Despite his long sojourn in the water, he was still crusted with blood, and he groaned with the pain of several broken bones and countless bruises. He pulled himself to a level where the freezing water no longer touched him and then collapsed to the cold bank. Tears flowed in a steady stream from his eyes, mingling with the river water on his cheeks and chin. He talked to himself, quietly but continuously, murmuring like the river of hatred, revenge, beauty, and his opera, torn to pieces by a pack of wild beasts.

Slowly, he sat up, shuddering with pain and exertion. Bewildered, he looked around but could see very little. It came to him that he was on the shore of an underground lake, vast and black. Far, far away, he could faintly hear the chorus from _La Juive_, and he realized that he was on the edge of the lake which lay beneath the opera house he had helped to construct. "Well, well," he murmured through gritted teeth. "I think that this would be an excellent place to call my home."


End file.
